Clockwork Blue
by vargrimar
Summary: In the age of steam powered machines, Cave Johnson creates an entourage of automatons to help him in Aperture Science's crusade against Black Mesa. Wheatley, his newest creation, is to spearhead the effort with his Blue Matter Core - but unlike other automatons, this metal man has the capacity to feel. [ClockworkAndroid!Wheatley/Chell]
1. Curtain-Raiser

"Sir, he is completely and utterly broken."

Cave Johnson kneads his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The pressure won't do much to ease the migraine stressing against the casing of his skull, but habit trumps any rational thought; his hands feel better when they're busy. He often finds himself imagining what it would be like to smash his head against the wall. Almost anything would be better than this constant beast of a headache.

"Gladys," he says, giving a pointed scowl, "you know I don't like bad news."

"I know." She stands before his desk, a slim and spindly pillar of stoicism. Her silver skin glints under the dim lamplight of his office, halfway hidden by the pressed fabric of a stark white suit. Snowy synthetic hair drapes down half her face, and the glow of her left eye bores into him, yellow and still, unblinking and empty. "I don't like it, either. But this is the truth: he's broken. And it's becoming a problem."

"All right." He sucks in a breath between his teeth and runs the pad of his thumb along the dark, wooden edge of his desk. "All right. Go on. Tell me how."

"It was last night. He awoke. Far too early in the process." Her voice is smooth, powerful; a polished amalgam of human and machine. "He doesn't know what he is. He doesn't know his purpose. He is confused and in distress."

"And the Core?" asks Cave.

"Stable." An audible sigh of steam. "Apollo reports all readings are normal. We can be grateful for that, at least."

Cave grinds his molars. The pulse in his head is overwhelming. Stars burst beyond his vision and a halo encircles the small lamp to his right. "Well, this throws a wrench in things, now, doesn't it? Everything was going so smoothly. So, what happened? What's he doing now?"

"He is currently confined to the Suspension Chamber," she replies. "Unfortunately, Curie was not able to sever his connection to the Grid before he woke. He is still connected."

"He's _still connected_?" Cave erupts from his chair. The room is spinning and pain splinters down his neck, but anger boils under his lungs and he shoves it into his voice because he needs to be strong, he _needs_ to be. "Why? What happened? Didn't anyone shut him down?"

Gladys lowers her gaze to the floor. "No."

"He's still connected to the goddamn Grid and _he's still awake_?"

"It was an oversight," she insists. "Curie could not—"

"Get him out. Now." Cave grips the arm of his chair to keep steady. It's difficult to stand, but he forces himself to stay on his feet. "I don't care what it takes. There is too much there for him to take. It will destroy him. Someone needs to cut the cord. Get him out. Have Rickard bring his toys, I don't care. Just get him _out_."

"Yes, sir. I will tell the others." Gladys pivots on one foot and turns to leave.

"Wait." His legs are trembling, his fingers curled into pale fists. "Gladys. Keep him intact. He's our last chance. You know that. That Core is all we have left."

"I'm aware. Still, that doesn't change the fact that we can't repair him." Gladys folds her arms and gives him a sidelong glance, silver fingers clasping the white of her suit. "The damage is too extensive."

"Too extensive?" Cave shuts his eyes and tries to process what is being said. "You told me the Core was fine. It is fine, isn't it?"

"It is," says Gladys, "but his programming is not."

"What?"

"If you recall, sir, I said he is in distress. We are not programmed to feel distress. Or anything, for that matter. Something is wrong."

A moment passes by before Cave gathers himself enough to respond. "Honestly, I thought you were being facetious."

"If I were capable of love, I would marry sarcasm. He is very much broken and we don't know how to fix him. This isn't a hardware problem. We can repair our outer shells like anyone else, but automatons programming other automatons is… " Gladys's lips thin out into a firm frown. "Well, you know my stance on that. Sir."

Cave lowers himself back into his chair with care. There is a sharp, roiling pain in his stomach, like something has it in a vice, and his migraine seems to be getting worse.

"I don't know if I can fix him," he admits, sliding a cool palm down his face. "His brain structure was a prototype from my father's mess of scrapped code. I modified it; I didn't create it. If something went wrong… I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Sir, you said it yourself: that Core is all we have left. We must do something or Black Mesa will dismantle us. Their chimeras are getting stronger with every build."

"I know that." Cave forces a swallow. "Believe me, I know that."

"So what will we do?"

"Shut him down. Pull him out of the Grid."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all. For now." He dismisses her with a wave.

"Sir," she says, taking one step toward his desk, "you know we need to—"

"Yes, I _know_ what we need to do," he shouts, "but that's for me to know and for you to do later. Now go get him out of that goddamn chamber, and if that Core is harmed in any way, shape, or form, I swear to god, Gladys, you won't have to worry about Black Mesa—I will dismantle you myself!"

It's an empty threat. He knows it, and she knows it as well. Gladys is his oldest, his first; even if he could somehow overcome that and try to disassemble her, he wouldn't have the physical strength to carry through with the task.

Gladys stares at him from the center of the room, her yellow eye climbing up his neck and piercing through his throat. She straightens herself, lacing her fingers together like thin bouquets of silver needles.

"I will tell the others." Her voice is a low, dangerous monotone. "We will cut him off the Grid, shut him down, and retrieve him from the Suspension Chamber. What would you like us to do with him after this has been accomplished?"

Cave knows he should apologize, but he doesn't.

"Bring him to me."

His hands are on his temples, but his migraine will not be assuaged.

"I want to see how broken he is for myself."


	2. Business Venture

Chell has never run so fast in her life.

Wrench fastened to her back, she sprints down the alleyway with her boots crushing against cream colored cobble. Her diaphragm heaves with every sucking breath; her lungs ache with fire and exertion and sweat slicks down her neck and it feels like she can't go on because everything hurts, it hurts so much, but she has to, she _has_ to, and so she ignores the pain in her legs and in her chest and she _runs_.

Ahead, the brick face of a building grows taller and taller at the end of her narrowing path. To her sides, the alley splits and veers off into other routes, but panic is a pair of wings behind her breastbone and all she can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other because she can't stop, she has to keep going, and her choices of escape dwindle with every step. She gasps in a surge of air as she spies an opening ahead to her left. Pressing a gloved hand to the alley wall, she hurls herself into the turn.

There is a moment in the twist of her flight where she can glimpse her pursuer. It has too many faces, too many teeth; steam gushes from its mouths and onyx claws gouge out chunks of cobblestone in its wake. It's been gaining on her since she left the Cabaret, leaping down the backstreets and hauling itself toward her with its midnight eyes and glinting metal hide.

It will catch her. There is no question. Machines can hunt without rest, and she will tire far before fuel will ever be a problem. She is only human. All she can do is run.

Chell lunges down the new path with her heart in her throat, but she doesn't know where it's taking her. She's never been on this side of Vaudeville. She could unsheathe her wrench and try to fight, but she's never fought one of these things, either. She doesn't even know what the hell it's doing here—this is a populated city of over three hundred thousand, full to bursting with inventors and scientists and technotinkers of all creeds and trades—someone should have seen it by now, someone, _anyone_ —it's tearing up the goddamn streets and it's going to _kill her_.

The sound of metal scraping against stone is a thunder in her ears. She can hear the grinding of its joints, its inner clockwork, the gears churning and the steam rushing through its vents, and she can only run. Her throat is dry; she can't swallow. Her eyes are damp, but she can't cry. The cocktail of adrenaline threading through her veins has overpowered the clambering fear that has harpooned itself through her ribs, and all she can do is run.

Chell rounds another corner, her boots skidding on the dusty cobble, and she powers through the pain that's eating at her calves and squeezing at her lungs. Her heartbeat is throbbing in her neck and she can feel sweat rolling down her temples, but all that matters is moving forward, running, _escaping_ —

"MECHNOMANCER!"

It's a fierce shout, echoing down the maze of alleyways. Chell jerks her head up to the rooftops in search of the owner of the voice. Squinting, she thinks she can see a shadow overhead through the sunlit glare, but it's too bright and the monster is right behind her and if she spares a second to take a better look she will become a smear on the ground because it will kill her if she ever stops running.

She's halfway down to another turn when something flashes on the outskirts of her vision. A figure leaps out from somewhere above, sailing downward to her at an alarming rate.

On instinct, Chell dives into a roll. The ground strikes her shoulder as she spins onto her back, the wrench digging into her spine. She pushes herself up with the remaining strength in her arms, poised on the balls of her feet, her coat-ends brushing stone. One hand stays flat to the ground while she whips the other up to fasten to her wrench's handle.

Something lands behind her with a resounding _crash_ that ripples her marrow. The cobble crushes beneath its weight and gives way to a broken crater and a flurry of dust and pebbles. As the breeze starts to clear the path, all she can think is that it's another one of the mechanical beasts, she's going to die, it's brought its friends, it's come to get her, she's going to die—

Chell unsheathes her wrench. It's heavy, half her height, and forged from a chrome alloy. She rises to her feet, gripping its handle in both hands. If she's going to die, if she's really going to be hunted down like human prey and torn apart by some malfunctioning machine, she refuses to die without a fight.

Through the clearing dust, she can discern the shape of a man. He's down on his knees with a black coat splayed about him in a furrowed semicircle. Just beyond, the creature seems to have paused in its pursuit. Mechanical jaws open and close, releasing jets of steam, and the creature's serpentine tail swishes back and forth with a structure that eerily resembles a spine.

The man peers over his shoulder. A shock of pink hair catches her eye.

"You'd best get down."

Without hesitation, Chell hits the ground.

Not even a moment passes before the screeching of the beast can be heard. Its claws strike stone, heads thrashing, and the weight of its movement sends a tremor beneath her. She grips her wrench and grits her teeth when she hears the sharp sound of metal on metal. Prickles trickle down her neck and gooseflesh engulfs her arms as the shriek pierces the air.

And then there's an exhale of steam, and she can feel its giant body collapse.

Footsteps approach her, measured and purposeful. When she opens her eyes, she looks up to see the man standing over her, clad in a pair of pinstripe slacks and matching vest. His long overcoat nearly touches his neat black dress shoes, fluttering in the breeze inches from her nose.

"Greetings," he says, the sun haloing the vibrant pink of his hair. He brushes a fleck of dirt from his lapel with a lazy swipe. "My given name is Thaddeus. It's fortunate that I found you. That chimera would have torn you to shreds. Or crushed you. Or burnt you. A very poor survival rate for encountering one of those, if any at all. I calculate three point four seven percent."

Chell leans forward, peering past his legs. The chimera is a sparking heap, a giant gaping hole through its hull. Its heads rest on the ground, etched in the likeness of lions, goats, and snakes. How the hell did he—?

"It has been permanently disabled," Thaddeus assures. Swooping down into a kneel, he offers his hand to her. "You're safe. No others have been reported in the area. It is a known fact that they generally do not wish to be seen. It is an anomaly to see them in the city, however. A total of three units have been sighted within Vaudeville's limits the past two years."

As Chell places her hand in his, she realizes that this man is not a man at all. His fingers are copper, hinged at every joint, glinting in the sunlight; even with her wrench in one hand, he lifts her to her feet with little effort. His face is copper as well, she notes; his cheeks are burnished and glittering, and the irises of his eyes are a brilliant pink to match his hair.

"My Maker has summoned you." Thaddeus gives a short and formal bow, his shaggy hair whisking into his eyes. "A business proposition. I don't know the details, but it's a ninety-one point three six percent chance it's concerning our newest addition. It's said he is broken. I do not have sufficient data to determine the validity of that statement, so I will abstain from setting that value."

Thaddeus extends one hand. In it is a folded envelope, sealed with a stamped blot of blue wax.

"Will you agree to attend my Maker in his office this afternoon?"

Chell accepts the envelope. She tears it open with one finger and glances over the letter inside. It's a short note, written in a cursive script on a crisp slip of parchment:

 _"Salutations, lucky invitee!_

 _You have been chosen by our very selective team to participate in a lucrative business venture sponsored by Aperture Science and Alchemy. Should you choose to accept this invitation, the automaton accompanying this letter will guide you to our humble guildhall in Vaudeville's Tinkertown district where we can discuss this further._

 _We look forward to meeting you!_

 _\- Cave Johnson, Aperture Science & Alchemy Guildmaster and CEO"_

Chell eyes the inked logo at the bottom of the note. So, it really is a formal invitation. She folds the parchment in half and tucks it into her coat pocket. Why would someone go out of their way to find her for something like this? She's not a part of any guild and she's been nothing but a wanderer, travelling from one place to the next in search of work. This is only her fourth visit to Vaudeville. It doesn't make any sense.

Her gaze shifts to the remains of the chimera among the cobblestone. The hole in its body is a straight shot from one end to the other; oil and pieces of its clockwork innards have spilled out onto the street. She has no idea how Thaddeus knew of its presence or even how he managed to destroy it so completely. The automaton didn't even look armed.

"Your response," prompts Thaddeus.

Chell hesitates a moment before she gives him a curt nod.

"My Maker will provide any necessary details of the proposition upon arrival," he says, offering her his arm. "I will be your escort. Considering your previous company, I am ninety-six point three five percent certain my Maker was correct in sending me."

Chell sets her wrench back into its clasp on her back. She doesn't know why she was being chased by a chimera or why someone at Aperture has suddenly become interested in her, but she has every intention of finding out. Dusting the dirt off of her breeches, she laces her arm with Thaddeus's and lets him guide the way.

"We'll be heading to Tinkertown," he says, leading her down the alley. "I would carry you, but my Maker has advised me against inappropriate travel decisions. He says it's upsetting to humans. With my superior engineering, I find I can travel far faster than organic beings—one hundred fifty-two point six three percent faster, to be exact—but at his behest, we will take the trolley."

Thaddeus navigates the narrow pathways, traversing the twists and turns and bins of broken parts and rubbish. They eventually emerge onto a congested street, the drone of steam-driven automobiles overpowering the din of the crowd. As they pass various fruit stands and meat shops on the orange cobbled sidewalks, Chell starts to notice something peculiar: the shoppers, vendors, and idling passersby seem very aware of Thaddeus's presence. When she draws close with the automaton on her arm, others step aside without hesitation.

"This is Wyck Avenue," says Thaddeus, gesturing with his free hand. "We're on the main strip of the commerce in Vaudeville, excluding Tinkertown. This road was constructed thirty-one years ago, and was named after Guildmaster Walter Wyck, the primary figure in the effort to secure trade routes between Vaudeville and Tiverton. That route was established in 1853."

Chell is less interested in Thaddeus's history lesson and far more interested in how everyone reacts to him. The more she watches others struggle to get out of his way, the more she tries to remember her previous visits to Vaudeville. With the time she spent hanging around mechanics, engineers, pot shops, and warehouses filled with parts, she heard a great deal about the guilds that called Vaudeville home. Aperture Science and Alchemy had been a prominent name, of course, but she's starting to think she hadn't realized the depth of its power. And the way Thaddeus had dispatched that chimera…

"The trolley stop is just ahead," he says. "The travel time to Tinkertown is seventeen minutes and forty seconds from here if the trolley is on schedule."

Chell glances across the street. A throng of people were standing under the overhang, and those that could not fit were gathered around the trolley sign. The crosswalks to get over were hit and miss; she found out very quickly that automobile drivers in Vaudeville tended not to care whether or not pedestrians were present.

She then gazes over to Thaddeus. He's paused his steps, staring down at her with a cocked head. His copper skin glitters under the late-morning sunlight, his flare of synthetic pink hair framing smooth cheeks and a pointed chin. His eyes do not blink, she notes; they are unnervingly still and focused, and they seem to emit a soft glow in the shadows of the nearby shops.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks.

"Carry me."

The corner of Thaddeus's mouth forms a smirk as if he's known all along. "Understood."

The automaton unhooks his arm from hers. Lowering himself, he presses his hands against stone and bends his back forward. His coat flutters against the ground.

"Fasten your arms around my neck," he says.

Chell does as she's told. The metal beneath her fingers is warm—from the boiler, she supposes—and she clasps her hands over one another around the thick of his throat. She feels the pressure of his arms wrapping around her legs and tugging them forward. Then, after he's sure she has been secured, he rises up to his full height. Others in the street are staring, she realizes, but it doesn't matter.

"Our travel time will be four minutes and fifty-eight seconds," says Thaddeus. "Time me."

Chell's heart lunges into her mouth when he leaps into the air. The crowds meld into indiscriminate colors and the noise drops from her ears. The rooftops race up to meet her and then she can see the tops of buildings, towers, and the streets become intricate mosaics below. An airship purrs somewhere overhead; she's afraid to look up, but she does, and she immediately regrets it because another ten feet and she might touch its hull. Thaddeus's pink hair is in her face and she can't breathe because she is so far above the ground, she's never been so high, and she wants to scream but her voice is a sharp shard down her throat and so she grips onto him and grits her teeth and tries to trap the sensation of flight inside her ribs.

"Going down!" shouts Thaddeus—and they go down.

He crashes hard into a rooftop, the aftershock shaking through her bones. She doesn't have time to see if he's left any damage in his wake; he's sprinting now, bounding from roof to roof in mere seconds, wind rippling past and sunglare in his hair. Chell has no idea how he's moving so fast, it shouldn't be possible, but it must be because he's clearing ridiculous amounts of distance with no effort at all— _how_ , that's _insane_ —and all she can think of is what if the chimeras could do this, what if that one was toying with her, what if it could have killed her and it was just wearing her out because why not, and Chell just digs her nails into the flesh of her wrists and hopes to god she's wrong.

Structures and buildings whip past. Thaddeus dives across another gap in the roofs, and Chell can glimpse the bronze and copper plated locomotives chugging in the streets below. With a hard swallow, she forces herself to look ahead. The north side of city slopes upward with Tinkertown at its apex. In the distance, the district's signature blue-gold clocktower rises up from the hillside, its gears slowly ticking. If she strains through the clack of Thaddeus's footsteps and the swish of wind in her ears, Chell can hear the tower chime as the clock strikes twelve.

The automaton continues his neck-breaking pace without missing a beat. There is still the twisting feeling of _I'm going to fall_ tucked under her heart every time he makes a jump, but his hands grip her calves with rigid strength and she feels better with Tinkertown in sight. She takes a shaky breath, inhaling the scent of his hair and the musk of his collar and the perfume of the city below, and the longer he goes without dropping her, the more comfortable she feels.

When the clocktower draws close, she finds herself relaxed enough to admire the architecture of the various buildings as they pass. She's never exactly found herself in a position to view Vaudeville from such an angle, so she watches the arched and steepled rooftops plated with clay and stone shingles; she watches the great metal pipes snaking from place to place, carrying water from one part of the city to the other; she watches the various decorative bronze and brass trinkets that adorn windowsills and doorsteps; she watches Tinkertown engulf her and its clocktower spear up into the cloudless sky.

After they pass the tower's shadow and reach Tinkertown's center, Thaddeus leaps from the rooftops and descends into the street. Her heart flies up into her throat, but the landing doesn't faze her. Instead, she focuses on the surrounding shops and signs, advertising parts and inventions and handheld miracles, and a part of her wants to stop and poke through a few establishments to see if she can find any upgrades for her wrench.

Thaddeus bounds upward again, clearing a colossal metal fence. Ahead is a grand mansion with spiraling spires, ornate gardens, and stoneworked gargoyles guarding the roofs; a place Chell can only assume to be Aperture's modest guildhall. They must be far wealthier than she had imagined.

The automaton finally comes to a halt when they reach the mansion's front doors. He kneels down onto the stone steps and gently lets her legs go. She unclasps her hands from about his neck and slides off his back, somewhat grateful to be on the ground again.

"My Maker is waiting within," says Thaddeus. "I hope the chosen method of transportation was not too upsetting. And I thought you would be interested to know: our travel time was a total of four minutes and fifty-two seconds."

Chell can only grin.

Acknowledging her response with a nod, Thaddeus presses a small button to the side of the gigantic pine doors. A series of cheery chimes can be heard from somewhere inside, playing out some unknown melody. After a few moments, one door swings slowly inward, and another automaton peers out. It's rather diminutive in stature, much more than Thaddeus, and it reminds Chell of a child.

"Oh, who's that?" it asks, inspecting her from the safety of the doorway. Fiery synthetic hair curls up by its copper cheeks, coupled with striking orange eyes.

"This is our Maker's guest," says Thaddeus, placing a hand on Chell's shoulder. "Curie, please let him know she has arrived."

The little automaton nods and darts away without another word.

"That was Curie," says Thaddeus, leading Chell inside. "Forgive her if she does not remember you after this encounter. She has an unfortunate memory leak that prevents her from retaining information properly. She asks a lot of questions."

The entrance hall is a grand thing to behold. The floor is a glistening white marble, veined with streaks of black. Matching staircases rise up to a balcony overlooking the foyer and thick marble columns decorate each side. Floor-length windows line the walls and a skylight opens above, letting in the afternoon sun filter in to create great ponds of golden light on the floor.

In the center of the room below the balcony, a man stands with his hands folded behind his back. He wears a nicely pressed brown suit, she notes, and she can see his light brown hair flecked with salt and pepper, cropped away by his fierce widow's peak.

"Welcome to Aperture Science and Alchemy," says the man, his voice echoing about the giant chamber. It has an unnatural strength to it, but she can see from the color of his skin and the wrinkles in his face that he's no automaton. "I see you've already met Thaddeus on the way over, so let me introduce myself."

He approaches Chell with steady steps. He pauses before her, right hand extended, mouth pulled into a wide grin.

"I'm Cave Johnson. I own the place. And if you're the lady I think you are, I've got a job for you."


	3. Terms and Conditions

"To make a long story short, I need you to fix him. I don't care how you do it or how long it takes, but the quicker the better. If you need money, parts, resources, whatever, just let me know and I'll make it happen."

Chell sits in the corner of a black leather upholstered sofa tucked against the southern wall of Cave Johnson's office. Considering the blinding white of the rest of the guildhall, she finds that the collection of old oak bookshelves clustered along the walls and the little stoneworked fireplace in the opposite corner of the room have created a rather cozy space. An ornate sapphire rug with various golden spring and gear designs unfurls from the room's center, ending a few feet short from the walls—homage to the clocktower, she supposes—and ample sunlight pours in from the ceilingward windows on every side. Thaddeus stands at her side by the armrest, still and silent in his attendance, and her wrench rests against the pearl white wall behind him. Cave himself sits in a wonderfully sculpted high-backed cherrywood chair behind a dark pine desk.

"I forgot to mention that you'll get paid for this." His hands are steepled together as he stares at her from across the room, his eyes a pale and stern hazel. "That usually sweetens things. You want money? However much you want. Sixty. One hundred and twenty. Three hundred. One thousand. Two. Ten. Doesn't matter. If you can fix him, you can have it, and you'll walk out of this place a rich woman. You could buy your own guildhall if you wanted. Or construct it from the ground up. Buy some land. Begin your own legacy as a new addition to Vaudeville's guildmasters. That would be something, wouldn't it?"

Chell is going to be honest with herself: the promise of cash would make her life a lot easier. With that kind of money, she could choose a place to settle down and concentrate on creating the things she really wants. She could buy an empty shop somewhere, start a business, build rapport with the community in Vaudeville. She could put her skills to good use instead of playing the role of a wandering mechanic, contracts and constructs for cash and meals. With that kind of money, she wouldn't have to worry about a damn thing.

The idea is tempting, but Chell has been around enough greedy thieves and frauds to know when there's a catch somewhere. No deal is as simple as this one is being offered. Something about this is poisoned, but she doesn't know what.

Folding her arms, she locks eyes with Cave and shakes her head.

"Are you serious?" Cave glances to Thaddeus. "Thaddy-boy, is she serious? Lady, you are turning down your whole future here. Think of all the things you could do. Seriously, think about it. Give it some thought. I can rise you up, give you power and money, make you a guildmaster, make you a prominent figure in Vaudevillian politics—anything you want. And you are turning that down. All of it. You can't be _serious_."

"I calculate a seriousness percentage of ninety-six point three three nine," says Thaddeus.

"I wasn't actually asking you," says Cave, scowling at the automaton. "And how could you possibly come up with that number? You can't read minds. I didn't make you like that. I don't even think that kind of tech exists."

"That is a fact," agrees Thaddeus, "but body language is a viable data element to incorporate when calculating these totals."

"Oh, shut up." Cave expels a noisy sigh and holds his head in his hands. "Look," he says, "don't go blabbing this everywhere, but I am… desperate. I need this done. Need. I want to put emphasis on that: _need_. When Cave Johnson needs something, it's serious, one hundred percent. Not ninety-whatever. Understand? Now, I know you're not from around here. That's fine. Plenty of people aren't. Can't help what you know and don't know when you're not a local. But you need—emphasis on _need_ —to understand that this is a dire situation. I wouldn't have sent for you if it weren't. If he doesn't get fixed, bad things will happen to this city. Very bad things. Bad things I can't handle. And if I can't handle them, you can bet your bottom dollar none of the other guilds can handle them, either."

Cave slowly rises from his chair. He rests his hands on the wood of his desk, fingers splayed, one thumb absently drawing circles on the smooth surface. His brow is furrowed, his eyes are shut, and his mouth is a thin, firm line.

"Thaddy-boy tells me you had an incident just before he brought you here," he says. "Is that right?"

The chimera flashes into the forefront her mind. Jaws and teeth and claws and gushing steam and jet black eyes with a ravenous fire, and she remembers the shriek of metal against metal as Thaddeus somehow put an impossible hole through its hull. She remembers its heads lying on the ground, maws unhinged, and she remembers the dark trail of oil trickling down the grooves of the alley's cream colored cobblestone.

Chell nods.

"That thing you saw was a creature from Black Mesa," says Cave. He stares at her from his desk, and she can see the worry lines etched by the sides of his mouth and across his forehead. "Do you know what Black Mesa is?"

The name seems familiar. She can't put her finger on it. Perhaps it's something she's heard during one of her previous visits? Folks of all kinds visit the Cabaret, and she wouldn't be surprised if someone had been talking about it there, especially if it's a prominent rival guild.

Shrugging her shoulders, she shakes her head in reply.

"Ah. That's fine. I didn't expect you to."

Cave folds his hands together behind his back and paces leisurely toward the window behind his chair. As he gazes out at the sky and the various architecture of the guildhall below, Chell watches the golden flecks of dust motes float about him, fluttering through brilliant sunshafts.

"So here," he says. "I'll explain the situation and give you the lowdown. To keep things short, Black Mesa is a rival guild in Tiverton. They're a southern city. They've been on the rise the past several years because of their automatons. While their engineering is passable and obviously unique, they haven't quite cracked the secret to developing artificial intelligence. They can't make machines like Thaddy-boy here. And they want to. Why? Because it's a lucrative trade just waiting to be exploited. Cutthroat markets are cutthroat markets. Automatons like Thaddeus are invaluable. Priceless. I'm not kidding. They are literally priceless—they have no calculable price. They have unsurpassed strength, they have brains that can analyze and solve problems faster than you or I could ever imagine, and they don't have the needs or limits of a normal man, so their stamina is exemplary. And do you know what the most incredible thing is?"

Cave rounds the room with even strides, making his way to Thaddeus. When he reaches the automaton's side, Cave reaches up and strikes him full across the face. Chell flinches; the sound of ringing metal resounds throughout the room. She cranes her neck to look at Thaddeus, expecting some sort of response, but to her surprise, he remains as still as he was before. Completely unfazed.

"The most incredible thing? They don't feel. Not a damn thing. Physically or emotionally." Cave massages the back of his hand, wearing a proud grin as the flesh turns a battered red. "They would make the perfect soldiers—if someone ever wanted to use them for that purpose. Think of the armies. Just imagine it. Anyone with an army of machines like Thaddy-boy would completely dominate the competition. Dominate! And that's what Black Mesa is after. That power. That option. They want to turn their creations into hyper intelligent killing machines, and they want to dominate the competition."

Still nursing his hand, Cave meanders back over to his desk.

"So you see," he says, rubbing his knuckles, "they would pay an awful lot of money for someone to get their hands on a secret like that. An awful lot. We're talking fortunes here. You wouldn't believe how many screenings our applicants go through in order to even step inside this building. It's a lot. I've actually lost count. We've had too many Black Mesa infiltrators intent on stealing it, so we've had to restrict access. I think we've locked some key people out, actually. Should check into that. Either way, my current bunch of scientists and lab boys can barely do their jobs as it is. It's not really Aperture Science and Alchemy if you can't do science and alchemy, right?"

Chell frowns in thought. It's all a giant web of politics, then. Figures. She's too far removed from this place to understand exactly who stands where or who might be right or wrong; all she knows is what Cave is willing to tell her. She's inclined to believe him—why else would she have been plucked from the streets like this?—but something still whispers in the shell of her ear that something is wrong.

"The bottom line," says Cave, releasing a heavy exhale, "is that they want war. They've started releasing their chimeras into the city. You had one after you until Thaddy-boy intervened. Believe me, if he hadn't, you would have been dead. No question. We've kept their presence hushed and cleaned up the mess, but there's only so much we can do. Citizens will start getting killed if they haven't already. Black Mesa is ambitious; I have no doubt in my mind they'll do anything it takes in order to get what they want."

Cave sits down and leans back into his chair, tugging at the silk of his cravat. The window behind him casts shards of light by the armrests and onto the brown fabric of his waistcoat.

"So, this is where you come in. I have an automaton that was built with some new tech my boys from the lab found. This new tech is groundbreaking. We're talking a whole new potential energy source. It can be volatile if things aren't in the right condition, but hey, it's new, right? Why not give it a shot? So we stuck it in him, built him a whole new shiny outer shell and reworked his insides to meet those specific conditions and everything. But that's not the problem."

He laces his fingers, frowning at the surface of his desk. Chell can see the tendons pressing up against the skin on the backs of his hands.

"The problem is… something went wrong. See, every automaton has a uniquely built brain. They're all programmed differently, which makes them seem like they've got different personalities—which in a sense, they kind of do. Real neat stuff. You should check it out. Anyway, we have this information source that we use to upload information during and after the compilation process of their programming. And apparently there was a glitch in the system or… or something. Something happened. I don't know. A fluke in the weather. No idea. But now he doesn't have that feature that makes automatons so incredible. What use is a metal man that feels fear, anxiety, dread? What use is a walking weapon that's too afraid to fire? I'll tell you what: none. None at all. It's wasted potential. Squandered.

"So I want you to fix him. I want you to get that emotionlessness back, no matter what it costs. He was going to be our trump card, our ace in the hole to shut Black Mesa down, but he can't face them as a terrified heap of scrap metal. He'd be smashed to pieces if we ever sent him out—might as well just _give_ them a sample of our tech to salvage—and then god only knows what would happen if they managed to get a hold of the Blue Matter Core. They'd probably come up with exploding chimeras or lasers or something. That's actually a good idea. I should tell the boys to work on something like that."

Cave runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath, fingers sliding up his widow's peak. He then sets an elbow on the desk and gives Chell a pointed look.

"Okay, so, enough of my blabbing. I know I'm talking your ear off and you know I'm between a rock and a hard place. I want to hear from you. I'm offering you a whole new life in exchange for a little of your knowhow. I want you to fix my automaton because as much as I wish I could, I can't. So, what do you say? Want to make a little history, fix a broken robot, save a city? Because this is it. This is your chance. This is how it's going down. I need an answer, little lady, and I need it now."

Chell stares at him, noting the sweat collecting at his temples and the fierceness in his hazel eyes. She could say no, she supposes, but after telling her so much about the city and revealing his motives, she doubts he'll let her leave if she refuses. She shifts her gaze to Thaddeus. He's standing stock still beside the sofa, arms at his sides, his copper skin reflecting the afternoon sun from the office windows. From all Cave has told her of the automaton's abilities, the chimera hardly seems a threat in comparison.

Absently, she wonders if Cave would order Thaddeus to kill her.

"Bring him." Chell rises to her feet. She reaches out behind the automaton and grabs a hold of her wrench.

"Ah, that's the spirit," says Cave, clapping his hands together. "Thaddy-boy, would you go fetch your special brother? Little Miss here would like a look."

Thaddeus gives an elegant bow, one arm across his chest. "Understood. I will return in four minutes and thirty-two seconds."

After the automaton leaves the room, greatcoat flowing behind him, Cave pokes out from behind his desk and sits himself down on the opposite end of the sofa from where she was.

"All right," he says, resting one leg across his knee. "Now that he's off to get our problem child, I want to lay a couple things on you. One, sorry if it seemed like I was threatening you. It was necessary. Lots of politics involved in this. I know you're not Vaudevillian, so you don't really know what's riding on this, but trust me, it's important. I wasn't doing it to be mean. I'm not a mean guy. I'd like us to be friends so we can tackle this together and get him fixed.

"Okay, two. Your project? It's going to be hard. Unfortunately. If it were easy, I'd be doing it. So I'll give you access to the Grid, all the notes I've got on him, the engineers that made his shell, and I can tell you about the stuff I changed in his head, but other than that, that's it. You're on your own.

"Three, I want weekly progress reports and I want them on time, on my desk at eleven o'clock every Wednesday morning. I'm not going to deduct your pay or anything for being late, but being late is honestly a pet peeve of mine, and we'll just get along a whole lot better if that report is on my desk. All right? All right.

"Four, we'll give you some nice digs here. We're not unaccommodating. Aperture Science and Alchemy will be your home until further notice, so if you already have a house somewhere else, too bad, you're here. To add onto that, if you leave the premises, Thaddy-boy or Rickard will be joining you as an escort. I don't want another incident like the one from this morning. Chimeras chasing you around the city—or god forbid, killing you—is really not on my agenda. And, honestly, it would be an awful thing for everyone involved, so we're just going to avoid that mess altogether."

Cave cracks his knuckles, staring up at her.

"And finally," he says, "a warning. When he gets here, he's not going to be awake. We had to shut him down because he was still connected to the Grid when that little problem happened. I'm not going to lie, it's possible that shutting him down in the middle of that could have caused some other… issues. So we're not going to wake him up here. I don't know what he's going to be like. I don't know what these glitches might have done to him. Just keep that in mind when the time does come to wake him up. Be prepared."

Cave's brow knits and he thumbs the underside of his chin as he glances out the window.

"Well, I think that's it. Sorry, I know that was a lot. You don't have to keep listening to me talk, you know—you're free to chime in at any time. Any questions?"

Chell leans against her wrench, taking the time to look about the room. With all of the books and the fireplace and the lovely rug, she imagines what her little slice of Aperture would look like. Not as fancy, she assumes, but some flair would be nice. The price is somewhat daunting, if she's honest, but she's never met a challenge she couldn't overcome. It would be a refreshing change.

"You're a lady of few words," says Cave, arching a brow at her from his place on the sofa.

She adjusts the harness over her coat, notching the belts one tick tighter. As she fits her wrench back into its clasp, she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He wants to feel her out, she knows—he wants to poke and prod to learn her weaknesses and to see what he can do—but she's not going to give him the opportunity. The less she talks, the less ammunition he has against her. It's the same with everyone else: shopkeepers, mechanics, technotinkers, men, women, and guildmasters alike. Everyone wants a piece of you to shove in your spine when you're not looking.

Grinning, Chell gives him only a nod.

Cave looks visibly disgruntled with narrowed eyes and a pinched brow and he opens his mouth to continue, but before he can say a word, Thaddeus strides through the office door. Little Curie follows him, both sharing the weight of a gigantic metallic case over their shoulders. It's rectangular in shape, colored a shiny chrome, and thick handles are fastened on each side. The entire thing is reminiscent of a coffin.

"As you asked, sir," says Thaddeus, lowering the case to the floor.

Curie mimics him, but her orange eyes dart to Chell. "Oh, who's that?"

"Our Maker's guest," says Thaddeus.

"Hello," says Curie, offering a wave. "Welcome to Aperture Science and Alchemy. It is our pleasure to have you with us. Where are you—"

"Curie," interrupts Cave, one hand rubbing his temples, "please wait outside. I'll send for you when we need you again. No, not you Thaddeus. You stay. Need someone to unlock the damn thing."

As Curie steps outside and shuts the door, Thaddeus lowers himself to his knees and begins to tinker with the case. Chell watches as he flicks his wrist, and then his hand opens up, copper skin parting in two, and a slew of curious-looking tools slide up from somewhere within his palm.

"Thaddy-boy is our gatekeeper, so to speak," says Cave, bringing his legs up to rest on the sofa cushions. "The engineering boys gave him a lot of useful things. He's spent the longest in the Grid, so he's also full of useless facts. I don't know why, but he really likes talking about them. At first I thought his memory was getting full, but we've upgraded his hardware several times throughout the years, so we know he's well within his limit."

"A quirk of mine," says Thaddeus, inserting a key into the case's lock. He twists, and a loud _click_ can be heard from within its inner mechanism. After his hand flexes and the tools retract back into the thick of his arm, Thaddeus switches two more latches on the case's side and then pries the lid wide open.

The first thing Chell notices is the vibrant, violent blue. On the automaton's chest, right where a human's heart might be, there is a circular slice of glass that lets her peer inside. Brilliant blue light spills out, nearly blinding; if she stares too long, her eyes start to hurt. As she looks over the rest of his body, she notes that there are pinprick points along the sides of his neck that burn just as brightly, almost like little nodes, and she wonders what purpose those might serve. His skin is titanium, she thinks, an incredibly rare metal, or maybe some kind of chrome-alloy like her wrench. It shimmers under the sunlight from the windows, and it has a sort of intense sheen to it that Thaddeus and Curie lack with their copper shells. His body type is thin and quite tall, a design she supposes must be part of accommodating the Core, and his mop of synthetic hair is just as blue as the light emitting from his chest. From the painfully apparent color scheme the engineers must have followed, she imagines that there are blue-colored irises under his closed eyelids as well.

Overall… sort of gaudy, if she's honest. Definitely not something she would have built.

"So, this is your new playmate for the next indefinite amount of time," says Cave. "You're welcome to poke around if you want. Get to know the hardware. Might be better to do it now than when he's waking up. Of course, Thaddy-boy will help you out if you need it. He knows where all the good stuff is. Don't you, Thad?"

"That is correct," says Thaddeus, rising to his feet. His pink eyes lock on Chell as he adjusts his greatcoat. "I have knowledge of how every automaton in this guildhall has been built and where to find each piece of hardware. Should you need my assistance, you need only ask."

"I just want to make something clear," says Cave, lifting himself from the couch. "None of what I've told you about Aperture, the city, Black Mesa, or my creations will leave this room. I trust you understand all of this has been confidential, and I have the utmost trust you'll keep this hushed." He approaches her, right hand held out. "With how talkative you seem, I hope that won't be a problem."

Chell shakes his hand and gives him a wink. "Not at all."


	4. Courtesy Call

Chell is running again.

The alleyways are a labyrinth of endless turns. The paths twist and switch and bait, and lead to towering brick wall dead ends. She can barely see her way in the dark, but there is a faint light ahead, just around the next corner, just at the end, just a bit further, and she's scrambling to keep going because if she stops, she'll be eaten, devoured, destroyed, annihilated, _dead_.

The sound of grinding gears echoes up the alleyways, swelling in from all sides. The ground tremors and quakes; she can feel their pursuit. Pools of black oil slick beneath her boots, but she continues to run. If she turns to look, they'll be right there, right behind her, but if she keeps going and looks ahead, following the glint of glowing light, she might have a chance of escape.

Lungs heaving, she rounds another turn—and an open maw is there to greet her.

An inferno is raging inside. Fire unspools past teeth of onyx and jet, and she can feel the heat as it engulfs her feet, her legs, her arms, her face; it's fierce and burning and consuming and this isn't what she wanted, it's not, it never was, and she can see her reflection in the sheen of its fangs, her eyes, the fear. Her throat is raw, smoke is swelling in her windpipe, and she wants to scream, but she's coughing, choking, breathless, and there is nothing but fire.

* * *

Chell awakens to see Thaddeus standing overhead in the dim lamplight.

She thrashes away, throwing back the blankets and adrenaline pooling in her blood. Her heart is drumming inside of her with frenzied beats and she suppresses a scream with her palm shoved over her mouth.

"It was not my intent to frighten you."

Thaddeus is standing beside the length of her bed, prim and proper, hands folded behind his back. He's shed his greatcoat, she notices, and she's now able to see the white dress shirt tucked beneath his grey-black pinstripe waistcoat. It's a handsome look, though the vibrant pink of his hair clashes far too much.

"I apologize," he says, holding a hand to touch her shoulder. She can feel the gentle warmth of the metal through her shirt, and the lingering panic from the flames against her skin drops shivers down the length of her spine. "My Maker says everything is ready. It's time. He waits in the Underhall."

Willing herself to be calm, Chell rubs at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Sweat seeps down her hairline and collects in rivulets along her temples, and she dabs it away with the undersides of her wrists.

"You dreamt." Thaddeus tilts his head to the side, as if puzzled. "This was distressing for you."

She waves him away with a flick of her hand as she lifts herself out of bed. With a slight bow, he obeys and twists away to wait for her by the door. Chell collects her things, her stomach roping into knots from the drop off of the adrenaline high. She doesn't bother with a full ensemble; instead, she fastens her wrench's harness around her pale long-sleeved shirt and pulls it tight. After shoving on her boots and snatching her gloves from the intricate surface of the carved bureau by her bed, she grabs her wrench by its hilt, fastens it in its clasp, and goes to meet Thaddeus.

"I will escort you down to the Suspension Chamber," he says, leading her from her new quarters. "He has been restrained there for your safety. As my Maker stated, there is a sixty-seven point three five percent chance there will be other anomalies involved due to his sudden severance from the Grid. We do not wish any harm to come to your person, so precautions were taken."

The descent to the Underhall is a blur of white-black marble and steel. Chell is on his arm, watching the guildhall melt past through the dusk spilling in through the windows. He leads her to a lift somewhere on the ground floor, a thin cage of rickety metal, and then it's carrying them downward with slow and halting movements, gears and pulleys shifting together. When the bottom comes, Thaddeus tucks the door away and ushers her forward with an arm in the small of her back.

Ahead is a long corridor. The walls are composed of some sort of metal alloy, and miniature lamps are ensconced in etched out spaces at eye level that give off a cool, gentle glow. Thaddeus leads her down the length of the hall, passing by its children as they branch off into other wings and rooms. The air is chilled and their steady footsteps are a rolling echo in the film of her ears, and Chell starts to wonder how far down they are.

"I advise using the utmost caution during this process," says Thaddeus, pausing before the end of the corridor. His eyes radiate a soft pink in the gentle gloom. "We will initiate the procedure. My Maker requests that you do not attempt to interact with him until he is fully awake, and it is suggested that you retain a distance of four point five seven two meters at all times."

She nods in reply, and Thaddeus guides her through the final door.

The world inside is a deep, unfathomable blue.

The broken automaton is hanging in the center of the chamber, suspended by various cords and wires upon around his chest that snake off and disappear into the depths of the walls and ceiling. His titanium shell has its limbs clasped in thick, black ringlets—shackles perhaps?—and they lay spread apart, as if to prevent him from walking should he come ever undone from his web of wires.

As she and Thaddeus approach, she's forced to squint. The sustaining light from the Core is the only light the room could ever need. It's bright, blindingly bright, and growing brighter still in a sort of gradual pulse. Intrigued, Chell leaves Thaddeus's side and starts to circle the room. She keeps a careful radius of space between her and the metal man, but she's close enough to make out the finer details of his body.

The nodes she saw that afternoon are paired down the entire length of his prominent spinal column. The metal is lobstered among them; overlapping plates of titanium cover the individual pieces of the spine itself—hinged in some way, she suspects, to allow him to bend and flex. His arms and are thin and have an almost willowy look to them, but she knows their component metal will give them massive strength and the ability to be nearly unbreakable. His legs have a similar build, and with long, flat feet attached at the ends. She can't examine him fully from where she is, but she finds the detail the engineers that went into creating his body is rather impressive. There are spherical ball-joints in the shoulders and hips, and simpler ones in the elbows, knees, and wrists. The most remarkable thing, she thinks, is how his hands have been constructed—slender fingers with small and precise joints, each piece smoothed and polished into the likeness of its human counterpart, with sectioned portions of metal on his palms working in concert to enable mobility. It seems as though each joint was replicated and sculpted with great purpose, though she can't say why. To accommodate the Core, she supposes, or perhaps a sense of aesthetic.

Chell rounds him again, and pauses at his front with her hand in front of her eyes to catch the glare. The Core stares at her through the glass window into his body, a fiercely glowing sphere of pure _blue_. She can't look at it for too long, but she swears to god it's moving. If she didn't know better, she would think a fist of azure fire had been thrust inside of him. His head hangs downward, but she can discern the distinctly cut shapes of what would be cheekbones, chin, and jaws, and the finely chiseled edges that compose his nose. His hair has been cropped, she realizes; someone has trimmed it so there's barely an inch around his neck and thick sideburns, but it flares out at the top in a longer and layered disheveled mess.

Bizarre. For an automaton, he has extremely human features. Even Thaddeus doesn't have such a realistic looking face. Chell doesn't have the most experience in metalwork, but she knows good craftsmanship when she sees it. Whoever worked on this shell was very, very skilled.

"Ah, good, you're here," says a familiar voice. "Glad you could make it to the show."

Chell halts mid-step and looks over her shoulder. Cave Johnson stands in a far corner of the room, his arms folded. Thaddeus and two other unknown automatons stand at his side. Cave gives her a beckoning wave, taking a step or two forward, and she draws away from the metal man in the center of the chamber.

"How do you like your new place?" asks Cave, mouth pinched into a smile. "I think it's pretty generous. I'll have you know it's on one of the better sides of the hall, and with quite a view if you care about things like that. Don't tell anyone else, though. They'll most likely fight you for it. Anyway, I'd like you to meet two more of my creations before we get underway." Cave gestures to his left. "This one here is Apollo. He's actually Mark III of the Apollos, but he's the only one still alive, so we just kind of drop that part of his name. Seems a bit disrespectful."

Apollo cocks his head, the light from the Core reflecting off of his brass skin. His synthetic hair is a cool, pale blond, the most realistic she's seen, and it's kept in a spiky mess. "Lady," says Apollo, fidgeting with the arm of his midnight tunic, "you have the eyes of stars. I like stars. Wanna go see the stars? I do. Stars are beautiful. Beautiful stars." He peers out past her, focusing on the broken automaton. "Did you see our brother's star? It's so blue. It's like the moon. It's Neptune. Pluto. Nebulas. Blue nebulas. Blue burning so hot it's cold. It's going to burst."

"It's not going to burst," sighs Cave. "The lab boys made sure of that. It's completely safe."

"If not, then we'll probably have a pretty big explosion on our hands," says the other automaton, his voice touched with a hint of southern drawl. He glances over to Chell, his eyes two glinting emeralds in the chilly light, and she notes the prominence of his square jaws. "You ready for some explosions, angel?"

"And this is Rickard," says Cave, placing a hand on the automaton's shoulder. "Don't let him intimidate you. He's harmless. Really. He's just a big bluff."

"That's not what those Black Mesa chimera bastards said when they hit the floor with bullets all through 'em like Swiss cheese," says Rickard, flicking his wrist. One of his silver hands splits and the barrel of a gun stares out of the stump of his arm. "They… actually didn't say much. It was just a lot of yelling. Because it hurt."

"They don't feel pain."

"I like to think they did."

"They didn't. Rick, for god's sake, put that away." Cave rubs his forehead, seeming exasperated. "We don't need you riling up our problem child when he finally comes to. As much as you love explosions, I really don't think the rest of us want to be caught in one. Now put it away or I'll have Gladys _rip_ it out of you."

Grudgingly and with a sulking scowl, Rickard does as he's told.

"All right." Cave turns to Chell, folding his hands. His countenance is weary, she notes, and she wonders how much of it is from what's to come and how much is from keeping his own creations in line. "Well, now that you've met everyone else, let's meet the star of the show, shall we?"

"I like stars. He has a pretty star. We should go see the stars."

Cave eyes Thaddeus. "Start it up, would you, Thad?"

"Understood."

Thaddeus strides across the room, giving the hanging automaton a wide berth. He approaches a console of some sort, and after a few moments of clicking and tinkering, the entire room comes to life with the sound of a deep hum. Chell can feel it beneath her feet and in her bones; it rumbles underneath the floor and through the walls. The sharp release of steam escaping a valve can be heard from somewhere beyond the chamber, and then the cords begin to tremble.

"We drained the leftover water when we shut him down," says Cave, leaning in close. "That's coming back in now. The boiler will take care of the rest. After that, his startup commands should run. Key word being 'should.'"

A minute or two passes of the uninterrupted thrum, and then the hanging automaton jerks his head upward. The rest of his body remains limp, tangled in the wires; she's not sure if it's by choice or whether it's forced by the strength of his binds.

His eyelids slide halfway open, brilliant blue irises staring back. "Protocol four-five-seven… complete."

Cave makes a face. "He's _British_?"

"South-English," corrects Thaddeus from across the room, halfway drowned out from the purr of the machinery.

"Why does he sound like that? I don't remember asking for him to sound like that." Cave exhales noisily through his nose. "I think I need to pay a few of my engineering friends a nice visit. That was _not_ the voice they told me he'd have. Actually, I think I need to show a few of my engineering friends what the door looks like. Maybe they could engineer a better door on the way out that would deny entry to _idiots_."

"Protocol seven-six-three… complete."

"Could be worse," says Rickard. "He could always sound like Apollo and his stars."

Chell glances to the side, where Apollo is standing in awe of the Core, oblivious to the rest of the room. Cave concedes Rickard's point with a grumble, but his frown and the etched lines by his mouth say he's not convinced.

"Protocol eight-five-two… complete."

"There should be only a few more," says Cave. "After he boots… well, we'll have to wait and see what happens. Hopefully nothing. Rooting for that. Everyone should be rooting for nothing."

"Batch file four-two-five-seven execution… complete."

Chell watches the automaton through squinted eyes. His body dangles like a ragdoll in the cords, but his hands look like they're starting to twitch. She tells herself it's the light from the Core and the tricks from its pulse. The pitch in his voice begins to crescendo, but she tells herself that it's just another part of the reboot process and it will be corrected once it's finished. His eyes slowly open, and she tells herself that it's normal—

But it isn't.

"Batch file six-five-two-nine execution nine-nine execution nine-nine-nine-ni-ni-ni-ni-n-n-n-n-n-n-nnnnnNNNNIIIIIIAAAAAAAAGH—"

The room erupts into a primal shriek, and his body has come alive. He's thrashing in his shackles and bonds, trying to tear at the cords and rip them apart with a vicious, feral rage. He's shouting and his voice is earsplitting and tremors sink their teeth into her spine. A part of her tells her to run because what if something happens, what if he breaks free, what if the Core becomes unstable, but her feet are cemented to the floor and so she's stuck watching this broken man scream.

"What have you DONE," he yells, pulling at the shackles on his wrists, his ankles, his chest. "What have you done, what have you _done_ , I don't—I-I'm not—I _can't_ , I can't, you can't do this, no— _please_ , it hurts, god, it hurts, please, st-t-t-top, make it stop, make it s-s-stop, make it STOP!"

Chell has never heard an automaton sound so anguished in her life. She doesn't know how he can feel pain because by everything she's ever learned that shouldn't be possible but it _must_ ; he sounds so tormented and lost and Thaddeus brought her over the rooftops at incredible speeds and there is a smouldering blue fire in that man's chest and she was chased to exhaustion by a steam-powered killing machine; she doesn't have a say in impossibility anymore. Frantically, she looks to Cave for an answer or for some kind of guidance, but he only stares at his creation with blank eyes, his arms folded and his mouth a firm line.

Fury knotting in her chest, Chell hits his bicep with the back of her fist. "What's happening."

Cave raises an eyebrow at her. "I said there was a chance other problems could happen. He was connected to the Grid for too long and was shut down without warning. This is one of those problems. It'll pass. It's just a glitch."

"No," she says through clenched teeth. "It's pain."

Without a second thought, she breaks away from Cave and the others and plunges toward the center of the room. The light is in her eyes and the automaton is struggling with his bonds, but she approaches him with hurried steps. The instinct to grab her wrench twists up her arm, but she suppresses it because she doesn't know him, she doesn't what he's like, and brandishing a weapon might only provoke him further. Instead, she stops in front of him, five feet away, and lifts her head just in time to watch the cords about his right arm snap in two—the sound is a sharp crack among the machinery's thrum.

"L-let me go." Despite her close proximity, he doesn't seem to actually see her; he looks straight through, out to the walls, the console, Cave, the other automatons; he can't keep still. His body gleams in the glare of the Core as the rest of him continues to struggle and thrash. "Make this stop, please, _please_ , I can't—I ca-ca-can't be—I _can't_."

Chell has no power in this place. She has no idea how to help him short of severing the cords that construct his prison, and even then she has no weapon that could do that kind of damage. The knife in her right boot is far too small; the blade would break before severing anything. Her wrench is blunt and made for both fixing and smashing, so there would be no way it could cut him down.

"Get back over here!" Cave shouts somewhere behind her. "You don't know what he's capable of! Get _back_!"

Cave is right, she knows, but she has no plans to obey.

Above, the automaton has managed to rip the bonds off of his other arm. A spike of anxiety sparks under her Chell's lungs as he knocks the black cords away. His strength must be incredible, she thinks; he shouldn't have been able to do that, he _shouldn't_ , but he has, and he's still strung up by his torso and ankles but he shoves his fingers under the shackles on his legs and starts to _pull_ , and the creaking sound of metal and the slice of wire punctures her ears and then she does something so incredibly stupid—

She reaches up and pulls, too.

It's hot on her skin and it reminds her of the roaring flames, but she swallows her unease and works the muscles in her arms and _pulls_. It won't help, not compared to him, but she pulls and pulls and then one of them is coming loose and he crunches it in his fingers and then it's withered away, whipping out from his ankle. She twists to the other side and tries to pry another from his leg, but it's too tight, she can't, so she tries another higher up and that one has some give so she brings her weight into it and yanks it down. He rips that one apart, too, and then everything else is too high for her to reach, so she ducks back and prepares for the fall.

When he snaps the final bond, he crashes to the floor with a shout. His sheer weight sends a rolling shock through the ground, and the room floods with darkness. Chell grimaces, catching her balance, and as she waits for her vision to adjust to the sudden shift, she glances over to the crushed tile where he fell.

Among the nodes of his spine, two great sapphire starbursts stare at her in the quiet black. Something jumpstarts beside her lungs; she knows she shouldn't have helped, she should have stayed back, she should have obeyed, and now she's right beside a possibly unstable automaton that might kill her without so much as a thought, but all she can do is stare back. After a few moments, the metal scrapes at the floor in front of her. He lifts himself up to his knees, and brilliant blue light saturates the chamber once again. With the radiance spilling from the glass-glossed cavity in his chest, the underside of his face is lit in a cool shimmer. He's still watching her, but he makes no further moves.

Out of the corner of her eye, something flashes with movement. She pivots to see Thaddeus sprinting toward her from the console, an azure sheen illuminating his copper skin. Sucking in a breath, she holds her hand out, motioning a silent command to halt. The automaton slows to a stop just a few feet away, yet he remains poised to charge and strike.

"You are in danger," says Thaddeus. His gaze is focused on his fallen brother, as if gauging whether or not he should intervene. "You must not come to any harm."

Lowering her arm, she ignores Thaddeus and locks eyes with the broken man. He's on his knees, stilled, and she can see the glow from the Core as it continues its gradual pulse in his chest. She takes cautious steps toward him, closing the distance, and she watches as reality slowly bleeds into his perception and the frenzy cools into a brittle calm.

"You… helped." It's a low, fragile murmur. She has never heard emotion expressed in an automaton's voice before tonight, and awe is present in his.

Chell says nothing. The overflow of adrenaline has rushed to her head, and she finds herself slumping to the floor. Arms hook themselves around her before she lands; she recognizes the pinstripes of Thaddeus's waistcoat and the burnished copper of his hands. She thinks she can hear the susurrus of Cave and Rickard approaching somewhere close, but their voices are rushing water in her ears and the outskirts of her vision seem to blur.

Slowly, the broken man's eyes follow her into the coming dark.


End file.
